


Sunset, Sunrise

by barbitone



Series: Captive Prince Fanfiction [15]
Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Angst, Blow Jobs, Canonical Character Death, M/M, Pining, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-05
Updated: 2019-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-03 18:00:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21678757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/barbitone/pseuds/barbitone
Summary: “Boy. Saddle my horse.”Berenger scowled. Just because he didn’t drape himself in brocades and velvets didn’t mean he was a servant. He wasn’t less than just because he wasn’t some painted dandy.“Saddle it yourself,” he snarled, turning.There was a youth standing a short distance away, his hair shining as bright as gold and his eyes as blue and clear as sapphires. Berenger’s mouth went dry as he stared at the vision before him. The boy was about his own age or maybe a year younger. He was the most beautiful thing Berenger had ever seen.He held himself with noble bearing, straight backed and wide-shouldered. Everything about him was perfect- from the inquisitive tilt of his head to his easy stance, his long limbs, his lean torso. Berenger couldn’t help running his stunned gaze down the young man’s body. He was wearing simple riding leathers and a rich blue cloak, fastened at the shoulder with a gold starburst pin.Berenger’s knees gave out and it was easier to kneel than to try and recover. His heart was racing as he tilted his head down to stare at a bit of straw on the ground, swallowing heavily.
Relationships: Ancel/Berenger (Captive Prince), Berenger/Auguste
Series: Captive Prince Fanfiction [15]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1455904
Comments: 30
Kudos: 124





	Sunset, Sunrise

**Author's Note:**

> Just a heads up- this is mostly a story about Berenger & Auguste, and this is not an Auguste Lives AU. Ancel doesn't show up until the very end, and they're not 'together' by the end of the fic, cause I didn't feel like rewriting Pet from Berenger POV HOWEVER You can rest assured that ummm eventually they bang.
> 
> EDIT: And they do! Here- in the follow-up fic: [If He Wins](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21824509)

* * *

Varenne was an important province- in theory.

In theory it was the buffer between the capital city of Arles and the vicious tribes of Vask. In theory it was a major producer of valuable goods. The fields of Varenne yielded grain and root crops and other staples. The Northern forests provided a steady supply of furs and meat and timber; the Eastern mountains were rich in iron and copper, as well as opals and silver and other precious materials. The horses bred in Varenne were the finest in all of Vere.

In practice, Varenne was all but forgotten, populated by farmers and miners and horse breeders and not much else. There were barely five nobles of any importance in the province- aside, of course, from the Lord of Varenne himself- and most of them spent their summers at court in Arles and their winters in more hospitable southern climes.

As a result, Berenger found himself spending his youth alone.

There was his sister, of course. Though she was more than a decade older than him so they had little in common. His earliest memory was his sister, Clarisse, forcing him to dress in fancy clothes so they could have a pretend tea party with all of her dolls. He’d been five years old. The following winter she’d been sent south to Toutaine to foster at her fiancé’s manor, and he didn’t see her again until he was well into his teens.

His father, Lord Aurus, was often busy with the work of running the province, though when Berenger was older he came to realize his father had been far more involved with trying to climb the ranks of influence than tending to his people.

Berenger’s mother was distant presence, long dead. The only memory he had of her was a dusty portrait hanging in a rarely used store-room. Lord Aurus didn’t like walking past her judgemental gaze as he led his pets to his bedroom.

For lack of familial or otherwise friendly companionship, Berenger found himself spending much of his free time with the horses. They were always glad to see him, warm and kind hearted. The stableboys, when they weren’t busy scraping and bowing, could be pleasant companions too.

There was one in particular, a boy named Louis only a season or two older than Berenger’s thirteen winters, that was quick to smile and pat Berenger on the shoulder, to show him how to properly groom and saddle his horse.

Louis had sun-kissed skin and a mop of auburn curls, dark brown eyes that seemed to sparkle whenever he smiled. Sometimes his hands seemed to linger on Berenger’s calf after he helped Berenger into the saddle. Sometimes his laugh was wicked and his breath hot over Berenger’s cheek when he leaned in too close to brush some dirt off Berenger’s shoulder, or adjust his hands on the curry comb.

Berenger’s first wet dream was of Louis- his wiry forearms and his wide smile, the way his thighs strained his woolen trousers and how his chest glistened with sweat, revealed through the gaping neck of his plain white shirt.

He kept his hair tied back with a leather band and Berenger dreamed of pulling it free and running his fingers through it, of Louis pressing him down into a pile of straw, and- and-

He wasn’t sure what was supposed to happen then. But he pictured calloused hands touching him and a powerful body pressing against him while he rutted against the sheets with his teeth gritted tightly so he wouldn’t make a sound.

Sometimes he thought maybe Louis was interested in him in the same way, but the summer he turned fourteen he came to the stables to catch Louis talking to another stablehand, talking about something that Berenger couldn’t quite make out at first.

“-he’s hot for it,” Louis was saying.

The other stablehand laughed. “So? He’s so- plain. Why even bother.”

“He’s the Lord’s son,” Louis said. “He’s good for a gold coin or two, or more. Who knows? Maybe he’ll be so grateful he’ll-“

Berenger didn’t stay to hear the rest, bolting back to his room in the fort where no one would see him crying.

He didn’t dream of Louis again after that, and he didn’t go back to the stables either, not until he heard from one of the chambermaids that Louis was gone. He’d gotten a girl pregnant in the village and they’d both been chased out.

After that he didn’t talk to the other stablehands, or any of the servants at all aside from his father’s man, Parsins. He was old and stuffy and didn’t hesitate to scold Berenger whenever he did badly in his lessons. Their relationship wasn’t exactly pleasant, but at least it was honest. Berenger didn’t have to worry that Parsins was saying nasty things behind his back- the man felt perfectly comfortable saying them right to Berenger’s face.

And so he lost himself in poetry and horses and idle day dreams. A solitary existence had always been the norm, and he was mostly content with it aside from the occasional pang deep in his chest whenever he saw a group of servants laughing together only to stop when he went past, or when he saw the cook gently scolding one of the serving girls while brushing her hair back into a simple braid.

Berenger told himself that was the life of a Lord- separate and alone. Maybe he’d take a pet one day, like his father tended to do. Though even that seemed pointless and empty. Surely a horse was better companionship than a vapid power-hungry youth. A horse was loyal and honest while a pet smiled prettily in your face and dripped poison in your ear.

And certainly Berenger didn’t need some pretty liar for- the rest of it. He had perfectly functioning hands for when the urge struck him, and if he sometimes pictured auburn curls and calloused palms then there was no one to judge him but himself.

* * *

He was sixteen when everything changed. Lord Aurus went to court in Arles for the spring season, and for the first time he decided Berenger would accompany him.

He hated it instantly. It was too much all at once- the opulence, the excess. The courtiers glared with poorly concealed jealousy as Lord Aurus stepped forward to bow to King Aleron and Queen Hennike, nudging Berenger in the back so he’d do the same.

There was a lavish dinner afterwards, so many unnecessary courses. The sauces were too rich, the desserts too sweet. Berenger wasn’t new to wine, but he was used to simple watered down vintages, not the cloying syrups they served in the royal halls. The courtiers made thinly-veiled remarks about their clothes, their holdings, their influence. A young woman made a comment about how difficult it must be in the uncivilized North- as though the way her pet was fondling her breast was particularly civilized. An older noble joked that there must be nothing but horses to fuck in a place as backwards as Varenne and Lord Aurus laughed along while Berenger ducked his head down and scowled. He hated Arles, deeply and without remorse.

As soon as it was acceptable Berenger slipped away, making his way down to the stables where everything was familiar. Where everything made sense. He brushed down his horse and fed her apple slices he’d stolen from one of the dessert platters, calming slightly as she snorted and pushed her face against his chest.

He was almost happy when he heard the imperious voice behind him, as clear as the tolling of a bell.

“Boy. Saddle my horse.”

Berenger scowled. Just because he didn’t drape himself in brocades and velvets didn’t mean he was a servant. He wasn’t less than just because he wasn’t some painted dandy.

“Saddle it yourself,” he snarled, turning.

There was a youth standing a short distance away, his hair shining as bright as gold and his eyes as blue and clear as sapphires. Berenger’s mouth went dry as he stared at the vision before him. The boy was about his own age or maybe a year younger. He was the most beautiful thing Berenger had ever seen.

He held himself with noble bearing, straight backed and wide-shouldered. Everything about him was perfect- from the inquisitive tilt of his head to his easy stance, his long limbs, his lean torso. Berenger couldn’t help running his stunned gaze down the young man’s body. He was wearing simple riding leathers and a rich blue cloak, fastened at the shoulder with a gold starburst pin.

Berenger’s knees gave out and it was easier to kneel than to try and recover. His heart was racing as he tilted his head down to stare at a bit of straw on the ground, swallowing heavily.

“Your highness,” he muttered.

Prince Auguste laughed in delight. “Rise,” he said.

As much as Berenger didn’t want to disobey his prince, he couldn’t quite bring himself to move.

“Rise,” Auguste insisted, striding forward and kneeling on the ground without care for his fine trousers. He took Berenger by the shoulders and drew him up until they were both standing, staring at each other. “What is your name?”

“Berenger,” he managed to answer. “Of Varenne.”

Auguste grinned. “Varenne. The finest horses come from there.”

“Yes, your highness.”

“Come, then. Let’s ride together.”

Berenger licked his lips uncertainly, not sure how to answer. Not sure if this was really happening.

“Your highness,” he started uncertainly.

“Auguste,” Prince Auguste said. “It’s not an order, just an invitation. I like you.”

“You like… me?” Berenger asked uncertainly. It was too much to believe that someone like the golden prince could like someone like _ him- _plain and drab in a simple brown jacket.

“Yes,” Auguste said, laughing again. He looked so beautiful as he laughed, warm and kind. Berenger found it intoxicating. “Though if you don’t like me, I suppose that’s fair. That was rather rude of me, earlier.”

“No, I-“ Berenger hurried to say. He could feel his cheeks heating with a blush and tried to will it away. “No, I- I find you… quite…”

“Come, then,” Auguste said, setting his hand on Berenger’s shoulder once more. He was so warm that Berenger felt his handprint like a brand against his skin, even through the layers of his clothing. Or maybe that was his own pounding heartbeat that made it feel that way.

“Alright,” he said at last, managing a weak smile in return.

They each saddled their own horses and set out into the night.

* * *

Berenger had never had a real friend before so he didn’t really know what it was meant to be like. He’d always imagined it a bit like this, though-

Auguste, dragging him along for rides in the forest, sparring in the training arena. In the afternoons they’d loll about in the gardens, pretending to study while they ate apricots and pegged the stones at the fountain, trying to land one into the mouth of the particularly ugly frog near the center.

Sometimes the younger prince Laurent, just four winters old, would manage to escape his nannies to come seek out his brother.

“Gus,” he’d say while climbing into Auguste’s lap and glaring at Berenger with petulant hostility.

“Laurent,” Auguste would say through his laughter, wrapping his arms around the young boy and holding him close. “Aren’t you going to say hello to Berenger?”

“Hullo Baba,” Laurent would eventually concede, as though he was under duress.

Laurent was sweet in his own way, despite his obvious distaste for the way Berenger stole away his brother’s attention. And his presence was worth it if only for the way it made Auguste beam, proud and happy like the world’s best doting older brother.

It might have made Berenger jealous too, to think that his sister had never treated him this way, had never been this close or this proud. But it was impossible to be unhappy while Auguste was around, filling up the dark corners of his mind with golden warmth.

The dreams that Berenger had long forgotten resurfaced with a vengeance- featuring golden hair and blue eyes, warm hands and wide shoulders. He tried to put it out of his mind as he lay awake in the dark, and still thoughts of Auguste stole past his defenses, inevitable and unstoppable. He thought of Auguste’s smile, the way his hips moved in the saddle as he rode, the way his fingers tightened over the hilt of a sword before he struck.

Berenger was older now, so he knew well enough what he wanted despite never having experienced it on his own. He’d seen it often enough to wonder about what Auguste’s lips would feel like against his own, what his body would feel like, pressed up against him. What his cock would feel like over Berenger’s tongue. Would he moan at the first touch? Or would he be silent and stoic, composed?

Berenger tried to put it out of his mind, convincing himself that it was just an infatuation. It was only natural for all his repressed urges to spill out onto the first person to show him any care or attention. And Auguste was so impossibly beautiful- how could anyone resist him?

Berenger knew it was a fool’s desire.

Auguste was a prince, beautiful and sun-kissed- he could have anyone he wanted. A courtier, an exotic pet. Surely he wouldn’t stoop to someone as plain and boring as Berenger.

When the season came to an end and it was time to return to Varenne for the winter, Berenger didn’t know if he was relieved or distraught. He let himself savor the way Auguste embraced him, holding him close for an impossibly long moment before pulling back just long enough to press a kiss to Berenger’s cheek, and then to the other.

“Gus,” Laurent grumbled from beside him, raising his tiny little arms. Auguste bent to scoop him up without breaking Berenger’s gaze, holding Laurent like it was second nature.

“I’ll miss you,” Auguste said.

“I’ll miss you too,” Berenger replied with a small smile. 

“I’ll write,” Auguste promised.

“Bye bye,” Laurent said with a glare, the words as good as a dismissal.

Berenger managed to smile a little wider even as tears prickled his eyes. “Goodbye.”

* * *

Auguste didn’t write.

It was for the best. Berenger tried to stifle his feelings as best he could, immersing himself in learning the inner workings of the province that would be his one day. He toured the outlying villages, accompanied by Parsins, and got to know his people. He learned how to manage the tax ledgers and household accounts, to organize servants and negotiate with merchants.

The winter passed slowly in a dreary fog of snow and sleet. Berenger found a way to keep busy and slowly his fantasies of Auguste faded until that season in Arles just seemed like a beautiful dream.

Spring came eventually and Berenger helped with the foaling season, getting his hands dirty as he learned to care for the horses and cattle while Parsins looked on in approval. His father was a distant figure, holed up in his bedroom with his latest pet, or out drinking in town.

Berenger didn’t pay him much mind, not until his father announced that they’d be returning to court.

The thought of it brought as much dread as excitement. He wanted to see Auguste and feared the prospect just as much. Would Auguste even remember him after all this time? A year had passed and Auguste was a prince. Surely he had too many admirers to keep track of, maybe a pet of his own by now.

Berenger almost considered asking his father to let him stay behind, but in the end there was no excuse he could come up with for the request so he stayed silent and obedient.

The arrival to court was the same as the last had been- too much too soon, too much opulence and bustle. They bowed before King Aleron and Queen Hennike. Prince Laurent, now five, was at his mother’s side, sweet faced and soft, dressed in a blue doublet embroidered with gold starbursts. He didn’t seem to remember Berenger because he didn’t scowl.

Berenger felt a pang of disappointment at the fact that Auguste was nowhere to be seen.

Maybe that was just as well. At least this way Berenger wouldn’t make a fool of himself.

He attended the bare minimum of the lavish court entertainments and spent the rest of his time riding or in the library. They’d been at court a week and Berenger was rubbing down his horse after a long ride when he heard familiar laughter and turned to see Auguste riding into the stables followed by two dozen soldiers.

“Berenger!” he cried out, practically vaulting off his horse and striding forward to yank him into an embrace. Berenger was too stunned to return it, eyes wide as he watched Auguste’s soldiers dismount at a more sedate pace.

“How have you been?” Auguste asked, holding him by the shoulders at arm’s length. “You look well.”

“You look-“ Berenger started only to cut himself off.

Radiant. Powerful. Perfect. 

Auguste had grown over the past year, and at seventeen he looked almost a man. He had a swordsman’s physique- lithe and muscular. His shoulders were wide, his waist trim, his legs impossibly long. His hair was long too, gold tendrils had escaped from his simple braid to frame his face with wild curls. His cheeks were ruddy with the exertion of his ride, his blue eyes glittering with mirth. 

“-good,” Berenger managed to finish.

Auguste motioned for a stablehand to take care of his horse before wrapping an arm around Berenger’s shoulders and steering him away, back towards the palace.

“It’s good to see you,” he said easily. “Sorry I didn’t write. Between one thing and another- well. Father has me leading patrols now, as you can see. Mostly through the city but once in a while further afield. It’s good to see the people but it can be exhausting. Just today we took out a band of bandits preying on merchants on the western road...”

Auguste prattled on easily as they walked through the halls of the palace, and all Berenger could do was smile and follow.

“Gus!” came a happy squeal and Laurent barreled out of a doorway. In his excitement he tripped over his own feet and Auguste scooped him up before he could hit the ground, lifting him to settle the boy over his shoulders and keeping hold of his hands to steady him.

“Look who’s run off from his tutors,” Auguste teased.

“Me!” Laurent said.

“Laurent’s been teaching me chess,” Auguste said with a wink towards Berenger. “Maybe he could teach you too.”

Laurent scowled down at Berenger with familiar suspicion and Berenger made a point to smile and bow respectfully. 

“I’d be honored, your highness,” he said seriously.

“...Okay,” Laurent said, appeased for the moment.

Auguste led them to a small out-of-the-way library in the royal wing, where a chessboard was set up by the window. He hadn’t bothered to stop and change from his ride, but he pulled off his cloak and his riding leathers until he was only in a pair of high waisted trousers and a plain white shirt, the laces loose at the neck to reveal a perfect strip of bare skin that Berenger had to drag his eyes away from.

“Here,” Auguste said, taking the chessboard and bringing it over to the large bearskin rug laid out before the fireplace. After setting Laurent down on the ground he toed off his boots and lounged casually on the rug, waving at Berenger in invitation.

His posture was languid and elegant, like a golden lion resting after a kill. Berenger felt like a sheep as he walked over and sat across from him.

“Won’t you teach us how to play?” Auguste asked Laurent.

Laurent seemed more interested in loosening Auguste’s braid to comb his hair with his fingers than any game of chess, so Auguste let him be and made the first move.

They played for a while, keeping up an easy stream of conversation while Laurent made a mess of Auguste’s hair with an attempt at braids. Finally he sighed dramatically and patted Auguste’s head with a look like pity.

“Gus, you stink,” he announced.

Auguste laughed, looking up at him. “Is that so?”

Laurent wrinkled his nose in disgust and Berenger smiled when Auguste grabbed his brother and tumbled him onto the rug, pressing kisses all over his face while Laurent laughed and tried to squirm away. In his struggles he knocked over half the chess pieces, then squealed indignantly when Auguste pulled up his shirt and blew a raspberry over his belly.

“Gus!” Laurent whined.

“Isn’t it time for your nap?” Auguste asked.

“I don’t _ nap _anymore,” Laurent protested. “I’m big.”

“Sure,” Auguste said, fixing Laurent’s clothes before standing and throwing him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. “Let’s go find your nanny.”

_ “Gus,” _ Laurent said, his voice dripping with utmost betrayal. Auguste only laughed in response, then looked back at where Berenger was still sitting looking up at him.

“My rooms?” Auguste asked. “Tonight? After dinner.”

“Yes,” Berenger said with a small nod.

“I wanna come,” Laurent said.

“Alright,” Auguste said easily. “You can can join us while we talk about horse breeding and drink wine.”

“Yuck,” Laurent said.

“Yuck?” Auguste teased, walking out of the library. “You mean yum.”

“Yuck,” Laurent insisted.

“You can drink milk, then.”

“Milk is for babies. I’m big.”

Berenger watched them go in a bit of a daze. 

Auguste had invited him to _ his rooms. _Tonight. 

* * *

The rest of the day passed in a blur, but finally dinner was over and Berenger found himself walking through the halls towards Auguste's rooms. He'd been there a few times the previous year and the path was branded into his memory.

Auguste's guards let him in without question and he walked into the comfortable sitting room. Auguste was sitting on a chaise by the fire, reading a book and sipping from a glass of wine. Laurent lay with his head pillowed on Auguste's thigh, wrapped up in a soft blue blanket and fast asleep.

Auguste looked up at Berenger’s entrance with a smile.

“Should I… go?” Berenger whispered.

“No,” Auguste said quietly, dropping his hand to stroke Laurent’s golden hair absently. “Come join me.”

Berenger sat in the overstuffed armchair beside the chaise and flushed when Auguste poured him a glass of rich red wine. It wasn't right for a prince to serve someone like him.

“He said he had a nightmare,” Auguste said, ignoring or maybe unaware of Berenger’s discomfort. “I could tell he was fibbing but I couldn't turn him away. I'm afraid he's got me wrapped around his little finger.” He smiled indulgently as Laurent sniffled a little in his sleep and started drooling on Auguste's thigh. Auguste simply adjusted the blanket to catch the worst of it before turning back to his wine.

Berenger took a cautious sip of his own. It was the same rich vintage he'd so hated when he'd first tried it a year ago. Here, sitting with Auguste while the fire danced in the hearth and the worries of the day were far away, it tasted lovely.

“He's loathe to share you,” Berenger said. “I would be too, in his place.”

“Is this what you were like with your sister?” Auguste asked, cocking his head to the side curiously.

The question startled Berenger into a quiet laugh. “No. No, I- we-” he laughed again. “I get two letters from Clarisse a year, at best. We were never close.”

“What a shame,” Auguste said with a sympathetic frown. “You must have been very lonely as a child.”

“I'm not lonely anymore,” Berenger said and promptly took a swig of wine to hide his blush.

At least Auguste didn't seem to read much into it. He simply seemed pleased and then switched the conversation to a lighter topic. The rest of the evening passed pleasantly. Berenger was feeling a little buzzed when Auguste stood with a regretful wince.

“I'd better get him back to bed,” he said, moving to take Laurent in his arms. “Will you come back tomorrow night? Maybe we can actually play a full game of chess. Or cards, perhaps. Anything you like.”

“Of course,” Berenger said, trying not to linger on the words _ anything you like _falling from Auguste's lovely lips.

* * *

They spent nearly every evening together. Sometimes Laurent joined them, sometimes they were alone. It had been happening for weeks before Berenger gathered the courage to ask what he'd been thinking a while now.

It helped that they were a bit more drunk than usual, sitting slumped together on the floor before the fire with their backs pressed to the chaise behind them. They'd been trying to play checkers but had given up when they'd ended up arguing over the rules and realized neither of them quite knew what the rules were.

“Auguste,” Berenger asked. “Why don't you have a pet?”

Auguste winced with a wry smile, raising his hand to the back of his head in a nervous gesture.

“I could ask you the same thing,” Auguste said.

“I don’t want…” Berenger broke off to lick his lips, not sure how to continue. “It’s not… what I want.” He wanted Auguste.

“Yeah,” Auguste said with a quiet laugh. “Sometimes I want… but I can’t. It’s not possible.”

“Oh,” Berenger said, his heart filling with hope. “Have you… ever?”

Auguste blushed brightly, his fair skin turning beet red in an instant. “No,” he said at last.

“Not even… a kiss?”

Auguste huffed out a soft laugh and looked down into his nearly empty wineglass. “I know I’m- the prince. I could, I suppose. But I- I don’t. It’s never…” he shrugged awkwardly.

Even as he said it, Berenger didn’t know where the courage came from. “We could,” he whispered, leaning a little closer and trying not to flinch when Auguste looked over at him wide-eyed.

“We could,” Berenger repeated, emboldened by the lack of disgust in Auguste’s eyes. “Together. We could try… I’ve never, either. Not anything.”

Auguste licked his lips, his tongue leaving his lips glistening. His breathing came a little faster, though Berenger wasn’t sure if it was from nerves or desire.

“Do you want to?” Berenger asked. “If you wanted to… we could…”

“Okay,” Auguste breathed out. He set his hand over Berenger’s, resting on the rug, and leaned a little closer.

Berenger felt his heart in his throat as he carefully set his free hand on the side of Auguste’s face and leaned in, his eyes threatening to flutter closed even as he forced himself to _ look, _to drink in every little detail about this moment. 

Auguste’s eyelashes were dark and long, his nostrils flared as he trembled, waiting. His shoulders were tense as though he was preparing to go into battle and Berenger pressed forward, knowing if he delayed he’d lose his nerve.

He didn’t know what he was doing but he did the only thing he could think of, brushing his lips against Auguste’s. They both gasped at that, pulling back as though they’d been burned. Berenger stared into Auguste’s stunned eyes, his lips still tingling from that brief contact.

“Was that… alright?” he whispered.

Auguste was silent for a long terrifying moment, but then he leaned back in and they were kissing again and Auguste’s hand was in his hair. Berenger gasped out a quiet moan, pressing closer and fisting his hands in Auguste’s shirt. It was messy and clumsy, inelegant. Auguste’s mouth tasted like wine and something indescribable and intoxicating. His hand was sweaty against the nape of Berenger’s neck.

But in a strange way- it was entirely perfect. He was kissing _ Auguste, _and Auguste was kissing him back. Auguste’s tongue was parting his lips and pressing into his mouth, Auguste’s fingers were entwined with his own over the rug. Auguste’s breath was mingling with his, Auguste’s chest was heaving under his hand.

A log cracked loudly in the hearth and Auguste drew back with a sharp intake of breath to stare at Berenger. His eyes were dark, his pupils blown. He looked like an impossible dream. He pursed his lips like he was about to speak and desire turned to fear.

Berenger tightened his fingers around Auguste’s, panting hard as he jerked his head towards the bedchamber. “We could-“ he managed. “We could…”

Auguste bit his lip, and then he nodded sharply and stood, grabbing Berenger by the hand to pull him up and take him into his bedroom. They kissed again, Berenger letting himself run his hands through Auguste’s beautiful blonde hair like he’d wanted to for so long now, and then they were tumbling onto the bed.

Berenger screwed his eyes shut as he ran his trembling hands down Auguste’s body, expecting to be turned away any minute now. Except Auguste only kissed him back as fervently as before, holding him close.

The room was quiet except for their shuddering breaths as Berenger slipped his hands under Auguste’s plain white shirt, sliding his palms over the planes of Auguste’s chest and sides, eventually growing bold enough to palm his ass.

Auguste stiffened at that and Berenger pulled away uncertainly, too afraid to push his luck. He wanted to make this as good for Auguste as it was for him. He wanted to do this again, all the time. He wanted Auguste against him like this always, the hot press of his mouth and the smooth expanse of his skin, the way he was trembling and biting Berenger’s lip and gripping the back of his neck.

Berenger pressed forward despite his fear, palming Auguste’s hard length through his trousers. Auguste moaned and threw his head back, his throat working as he swallowed around his harsh breaths.

Berenger kissed the long column of his neck, working his way downward to lathe his tongue against Auguste’s peaked nipples and then down his chest and taut stomach, to the beginning of the trail of golden hairs leading to his cock, straining against the fabric of his trousers. Berenger’s fingers trembled as he went for Auguste’s laces, and that was when he felt Auguste’s hands at his shoulders, pushing him back.

“Don’t,” Auguste whispered.

Berenger froze. “What's wrong? You don't want-?”

“I won’t,” Auguste said, his voice trembling. “For you. I won’t… do that.”

“Oh,” Berenger said. He’d never dared hope that Auguste might do that anyway. He was the _ prince. _“I don’t mind. I want to.”

Auguste still seemed uncertain so Berenger pulled back further, unconsciously stroking Auguste’s taut stomach with his fingers. 

“Do you not…?” he managed to whisper. “We could stop. But I- I want-“

“Alright,” Auguste breathed out, his cheeks flushed beet red.

Berenger didn’t give himself the chance to doubt as he pulled Auguste’s laces open. His cock sprang free, pink and perfect, curved slightly towards his belly. Auguste hid his face with his forearm as Berenger leaned in, holding his breath as he pressed a gentle kiss to the underside.

It was nothing like he’d expected- nothing like touching himself. Auguste’s skin felt impossibly soft and fine and he smelled of musk and desire, almost sweet in the strangest way. Maybe it was Berenger’s own desire that made it seem that way.

Before he could talk himself out of it, Berenger wrapped his lips around Auguste’s cock and took it inside his mouth, sliding down as far as he could.

Auguste gasped, his hips shifting restlessly. Berenger’s own cock twitched in his pants and he moved to rub himself against the bed, closing his eyes as he pushed himself to keep going. He sucked a little as he pulled back and Auguste made a soft sound that Berenger committed to memory like a starving man might clutch a morsel of food to his chest.

He wasn’t arrogant enough to think he was good at this, that this might ever happen again. And so he savored every moment of Auguste’s cock in his mouth, focusing on the way he smelled and tasted, the way his hips shifted and the heavy weight of him over Berenger’s tongue.

Auguste moaned like wounded thing when Berenger sped up. One of his hands moved like he was about to bury it in Berenger’s hair, but at the last moment he clutched at the sheets instead.

Berenger was dizzy with arousal as he continued. He could tell it wouldn’t be long now and he wanted to slow, to make this last, but he simply couldn’t.

“I- I can’t-“ Auguste breathed out. “I- I’m-“

Berenger only sucked harder, wanting to push him over the edge, to feel like he’d done this- had given Auguste this.

Auguste’s climax came as a burst of bitter salt over his tongue and he swallowed in surprise as Auguste spilled in his mouth, shuddering hard. Berenger sucked him through it before pulling off and shoving his hand down to palm himself over his own forgotten clothing. He was so close to the edge just from this that he came almost instantly, making a mess of his trousers and underthings.

Once it was over he felt scared and ridiculous. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and sat back while Auguste moved to slowly lace up his own pants and pull down his shirt.

He didn’t seem upset, but he didn’t exactly seem _ happy _either. All of this felt… wrong.

“That was…” Auguste said at last, not quite looking at him. “Thank you.”

“Right,” Berenger managed. It didn’t seem like Auguste was going to say anything else, so Berenger swallowed heavily and hunched in on himself. “I should probably- go.”

He’d been hoping Auguste would ask him to stay but he only nodded a little, staring up at the ceiling like it was the most fascinating thing in the world. “Right.”

“Right,” Berenger said, standing awkwardly. He left the room in a daze, pausing in the sitting room to grab his jacket- discarded hours ago- and folded it over his arm, holding it carefully in front of himself to hide the wet spot over the front of his trousers.

Auguste’s guards paid him as much attention as usual- none.

He felt discarded as he walked back to his own rooms. Disgusting.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. There were parts that had been good, weren’t there? They’d both liked parts of it. Maybe this was how it always was, but some voice at the back of his mind was screaming at him, telling him he’d messed something up, ruined something.

As soon as he was in the privacy of his own bedroom he ripped off his soiled clothes and washed the evidence of the night away.

* * *

Auguste avoided him the next day and the day after that. In fact, he avoided Berenger for a full week- the distance painful and terrifying. Berenger wasn’t sure what he’d done wrong, all he knew was that it was something.

He was in the stables when Auguste found him at last, announcing himself with an uncharacteristically quiet cough.

Berenger turned, his heart pounding and his palms sweating. He felt rooted to the spot as Auguste walked closer.

“I think I should… apologize,” Auguste said, staring at his feet. “I- it was a mistake. I shouldn’t have let it happen, but I-“ He sighed heavily, running a hand through his hair. “I like- women,” he said at last.

“Oh,” Berenger whispered. Some of the things Auguste had said suddenly made a lot more sense. He wasn’t sure how that made him feel- better or worse. All he knew was that he felt sick, his gut churning.

“I thought maybe-“ Auguste said only to break off. He looked up, his eyes fierce as he looked at Berenger. “If I liked men at all- it would have been you.”

There was nothing Berenger could say to that. He felt hollowed out, hopeless.

“I’m sorry,” Auguste said, stepping forward to carefully put his hand on Berenger’s shoulder. Berenger didn’t have the strength to move away. “I hope I didn’t ruin everything between us.”

Berenger managed a small smile. If anyone had ruined things- it had been himself. And now Auguste was apologizing to him for the horrible liberties Berenger had dared to take, when it wasn’t his place to dream of such things, much less act on them.

“It’s my fault,” he admitted. “I shouldn’t have-”

Auguste pulled him into an embrace and it was almost like it used to be. Berenger shivered and buried his face in Auguste’s shoulder, grasping at him like a drowning man grasped at air.

They stayed like that for a long time while Berenger fought not to cry. When Auguste pulled away he felt a little steadier.

“I’d like it if we were friends,” Auguste said with a warm smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Do you think we could…? Do you think it could be like it was?”

“Yes,” Berenger said, “of course.”

“Maybe you'll come to my rooms after dinner, then?” Auguste asked with a hopeful smile. “Tonight?”

Berenger nodded and Auguste's smile widened. “Tonight.”

* * *

Laurent was in Auguste's rooms that night, drinking hot cocoa and reading a book on the rug by the fire while Auguste and Berenger played a game of chess.

Laurent was there every night thereafter for the next three weeks like a tiny golden-haired chaperone.

It would have been cute if it didn't make Berenger’s heart ache. Did Auguste really think he’d try something? After what had happened?

But then Auguste invited him riding and it was just the two of them. Even though their conversation felt stilted at times, it was almost how it used to be. That night Laurent wasn’t in Auguste’s rooms and they drank wine and played cards and even laughed together.

Things got easier after that and Berenger tried to stifle his desire, focusing on how grateful he was instead. He had more of Auguste than anyone save Laurent, and he treasured every moment they spent together.

Eventually summer came to an end as it always did, and Berenger bid Auguste goodbye before returning to Varenne.

It was a hard winter. Berenger ran himself ragged taking over his father’s duties as he toured the province and did what he could for his people. In the spring Clarisse sent word that she’d had her first child, so Berenger spent that summer visiting her in Toutaine before he was called back to deal with rising tensions between Vere and Vask.

He dutifully wrote letters to Auguste, who answered one out of three, at most. Half the time his letters were written in a childish script- Laurent answering for him.

Berenger was nineteen by the time he saw Auguste again. Auguste seemed as happy as ever to see him, but it didn’t escape Berenger’s attention that there was a new arrival at court-

A young man hanging off Auguste’s arm and smiling up at him warmly. He had straight hair cascading down past his shoulders, black as a raven’s wing. His eyes were black too, his skin pale as cream. He wore onyx studs through his ears and gold paint around his eyes and lips.

Auguste had taken a pet.

He was certainly striking, beautiful in a way Berenger could never hope to be. His laugh was clear and fresh like the ringing of bells and he moved with an easy grace. He was better than Berenger in every way and yet it still hurt so badly to know that Auguste had chosen someone else when he’d said that if he could be with a man, it would be with _ him. _

“Ugh,” said Laurent, seven years old now, as he sidled up to where Berenger was standing on a balcony, watching Auguste and his pet strolling through the pleasure gardens below.

“Pardon?” Berenger asked, glancing over at the young prince beside him.

Laurent wrinkled his nose and took a pointed sip of juice.

“Ugh,” he repeated, drawing the syllable out into something closer to a groan. “Mathis is the worst.”

“Mathis?” Berenger asked.

Laurent rolled his eyes. “Auguste’s pet. He’s awful. He keeps trying to get rid of me in the hopes that Auguste will kiss him.”

“What?” Berenger managed in confusion.

“Well, they’re not _ fucking,” _Laurent said.

Berenger nearly choked on his drink. “You shouldn’t be saying-“

“Well it’s_ true,” _Laurent said defensively. “It’s just for show. Mathis is good at swordplay so they’re at it all the time. He studied in Patras and Auguste is obsessed with learning all their forms. It’s so boring.”

“Oh,” Berenger said, trying not to sound too pleased. 

“I like you better anyway,” Laurent muttered. “You never try to get rid of me. I wish he would have just married you and then we could be together all the time.”

Berenger didn’t know quite what to say to that. _ I wish that too _seemed somehow wrong. “He’ll have to marry a woman one day,” he said instead. “So he can have heirs.”

“I’ll never marry a woman,” Laurent said in disgust.

Berenger laughed a little at that, surprised at the little price’s vehemence.

“You never know,” he said. “You might come to like women in time.”

“Did you?” Laurent asked, too perceptive for his seven years.

Berenger considered lying, but it seemed useless with Laurent’s piercing gaze on him. “No,” he said simply.

Laurent nodded like what he’d said was entirely sensible. “It’s fine,” he said. “Auguste can have heirs and I’ll have books.”

Berenger simply smiled in response before looking back down into the gardens where Mathis was adjusting Auguste’s laces while Auguste laughed about something, his eyes crinkling at the corners. A hot knife of jealousy stabbed through Berenger’s heart and he had to look away to try and push it back.

“Gus won’t keep him for long,” Laurent muttered. “He never does.”

* * *

Mathis was gone by the end of the season to a different master, his price all the higher for having served the Crown Prince. Berenger tried not to feel too relieved.

Even while Mathis had been around, Auguste had made a point of spending time with Berenger as he usually did, but there was something special about having his undivided attention.

The summer Berenger was twenty he arrived to court with two prize mares he’d helped deliver himself- both white as snow with manes to match. Gifts for the princes. Auguste trained them while Laurent watched, enraptured, from the sidelines. If Berenger hadn’t already had Auguste’s favor, this gift would have assured it.

His yearning wasn’t quite so sharp anymore. His heart didn’t flutter every time Auguste smiled, and his knees didn’t buckle every time Auguste deigned to touch him. But there was still some trembling hopeful voice inside him singing- _ if only… _

He shut down thoughts of _ if only. _ That way lay foolishness and despair and he was stronger than that.

At twenty one, when he came of age, he swore himself to Auguste as one of his bannermen. Auguste called on his pledge that very autumn, when Vask started raiding outlying towns. The campaign lasted through the end of winter- two full seasons of riding at Auguste’s side, commanding the men of Varenne under the starburst banner.

It was the first command for the both of them, but where Berenger struggled, Auguste took to it as though he was born for leadership. No matter the hardships they faced- the landslide that took out most of their supplies, the blizzard that left their men separated and stranded, the vicious attacks by Vaskian raiders- Auguste was the sun that everyone orbited and looked to.

At the end of their campaign they left the rebellious tribes broken behind them, and when one Vaskian clan who looked favorably upon their Veretian allies invited Auguste and his men to drink hakesh at the coupling fire, Berenger didn’t stay to watch.

Auguste stumbled into his tent by mistake that night, laughing breathily when Berenger sat up with a dagger clutched in his hand in shock.

“Sorry,” Auguste giggled, dropping to the bedroll while Berenger moved to stow his dagger away. “Sorry. I don’t think my legs work anymore.”

“Stay, then,” Berenger said, shifting so his blankets would cover the both of them.

Auguste was nearly naked in his Vaskian loincloth- more naked than he’d been that fateful night they’d been together. He was panting and damp with a faint sheen of sweat. He had such an air of satisfaction about him as Berenger had never seen.

He hadn’t looked that way after their night together.

“Who knew fathering bastards was so much fun,” Auguste muttered, his eyes bright in the darkness as he stared up at the ceiling of the tent. “No wonder it’s forbidden.”

Despite himself, Berenger laughed. He elbowed Auguste in the side and then Auguste was laughing too. When they calmed, Auguste turned to look at him, propping his head on his side.

“Shame,” he said thoughtfully. “You should have joined us.”

“My line ends with me,” Berenger said dryly.

Auguste only laughed again, falling back into the blankets. “Dramatic,” he murmured. “Laurent would love it. I swear- the older he gets the more serious he becomes. I don’t think he’ll ever take a woman. Just like you.”

“Not all of us are cut out for fathering a whole brood of children,” Berenger said, smiling a little to himself.

“True,” Auguste said. “As it turns out- it’s very hard work.” Something he’d said or thought sent him into a fresh wave of giggles and Berenger couldn’t stay impassive in the face of it.

He might have expected to become even more lovesick after that night, but he found a sort of peace instead. Auguste would never want him the same way Berenger wanted him, but that was alright. They could still love each other, be close to each other. They could be friends and brothers-in-arms.

Plus it helped, somewhat, to quell his desire when he found out that night- Auguste snored like a bear.

* * *

The summer of his twenty third year Auguste invited him to spend the season at Aquitart. Berenger was helpless to refuse him, as usual.

It was the farthest south he’d ever been and he found the air heavy and cloying, too damp by far. Aquitart was a small keep, though well appointed and supplied. Aside from the small retinue of servants, Berenger found himself alone with Auguste and Laurent.

The three of them rode and played and swam, and spent long summer nights lying out on the grass counting stars or lightning bugs, or simply telling made up stories so the others would laugh.

It was peaceful and intimate and restful in a way Berenger had never felt before. How strange, to feel that way so close to the Akielon border.

Auguste convinced Berenger and Laurent that it would be a fine idea to disguise themselves as peasants so they could attend the midsummer festival. It was easy enough to slip out of the fort, and they did have a marvelous time.

Laurent snuck a cup of wine and ended up falling asleep barely midway through, so Berenger and Auguste took turns carrying him back to the castle so they could put him to bed. Afterwards they drank more wine out on the balcony, and talked of the future and how good it would be.

In the morning Berenger had a hearty headache but it seemed worth it for the way Auguste and Laurent smiled at him.

When Berenger was twenty-four he spent the summer at court again, and it was impossible to ignore the rising tensions with their southern neighbors.

And then everything fell apart.

At twenty-five Berenger found himself embroiled in war.

He summoned his troops and rode out at Auguste’s side to keep Delpheur. He fought beside his prince as wave after wave of Akielons crashed and broke against Auguste’s iron will. And then the Akielon Prince Damianos rode up, and challenged Auguste to a duel.

If he were able, Berenger would have told him to refuse. Damianos was fresh while Auguste had been fighting for hours. But it was not in him to refuse or back down, and so he motioned his men back and accepted the challenge.

Berenger watched it all in horror. He watched the moment where Auguste let Damianos regain his sword, watched the moment when Auguste was speared through.

There was a wail fighting to break free from his throat as he scrambled forward and cradled Auguste’s body in his death throes. Auguste looked up at him, clear eyed for a single moment, before his light went dark.

Everything else went dark too.

Berenger was only dimly aware of what was happening around him. Auguste’s body was taken away. There was a messenger, come to say that Berenger’s father was dead. That knowledge didn’t hurt nearly as badly as the loss of Auguste did.

The war was over, though he didn’t know how, or why. All he knew was that Auguste was dead.

He wandered the camp in a daze until he came to the tent where Auguste’s body was being held, and walked inside in a stupor to find Laurent on his knees, weeping over his dead brother.

He sank to his knees too, sitting beside Laurent but not daring to touch or speak to him. It was not his place to even witness his grief, much less involve himself in it. But he couldn’t leave. He couldn’t leave Auguste, or his brother either. Auguste wouldn’t have wanted Laurent to be alone.

He sat a long time in silence, waiting for Laurent’s weeping to cease though it never did. All he could do was look upon Auguste’s shrouded body and try to offer some silent support to his surviving brother.

A long time passed- hours.

Eventually the tent flaps parted and a tall bearded man strode in, looking on at the proceedings coldly.

“Laurent,” he said. “You’re the Crown Prince. There are things you need to do, duties you need to-”

“Fuck off,” Berenger snarled, mindless of his own tongue. He wrapped and arm around Laurent and drew him closer protectively, glaring at the newcomer. “Let him grieve.”

The newcomer- and that was when Berenger recognized the King’s brother- frowned.

Laurent sobbed harder and clutched at the front of Berenger’s doublet. Berenger drew him closer, trying to hide him away from the darkness of the world.

“He can’t,” he managed to say to the King’s brother- the Regent. “Just give him this night.”

To his shock, the Regent’s eyes lit up with pure hatred.

Berenger would have flinched if he weren’t frozen.

He knew instinctively that he’d just made a lifelong enemy and couldn’t understand why, or how. He could only wait as the Regent’s lips tightened into a thin line and he swept out of the tent, leaving the both of them alone with their grief.

* * *

As much as he might have liked to, Berenger wasn’t permitted to sit with Laurent at the funeral.

The young Crown Prince was at the front with his uncle the Regent, and then it was the council and the older Lords and nobles and of course all their pets. 

Berenger, the freshly minted Lord of Varenne, was relegated to some dark corner of the hall as the casket bearing his dear friend was carried by on the shoulders of his Prince’s guard.

He couldn’t bear to stay much past the official ceremonies, escaping out to the stables and saddling his horse in a stupor while Parsins tried to convince him to wait for the carriage to be brought around.

He couldn’t wait. He couldn’t _ breathe. _

There wasn’t any _ air _in Arles, nothing but a thick oppressive fog that threatened to crush him.

He rode from the palace like he was riding for his life, escaping a monster opening its gaping maw to gobble him down. It was growing dark by the time he came to a small town only to realize he hadn’t thought to bring his things, or any coin. He laughed weakly and let his horse graze in a meadow while he sat on the damp earth and brought his knees up to his chest, watching sightlessly as the sun dropped below the horizon.

That was how Parsins and the rest of his retinue found him near midnight, and Parsins didn’t even scold him. He took one look at him and pulled him up to his feet, walking him silently to the nearest inn where he arranged for rooms for everyone and led Berenger up the stairs before helping him undress and tucking him into bed.

He was twenty five and a man grown, the Lord of an entire province, and he’d never felt like more like a boy. His father was gone, his dearest friend was gone.

Sometime along the way he’d grown used to not being alone and now it was just him and Parsins again, like it used to be.

* * *

There was so much work to be done that Berenger gladly lost himself in it.

He toured Varenne and did what he could to help the families of the men who hadn’t come home from the war. He found out the true disastrous state Lord Aurus had left their household accounts in.

Berenger scraped together trade deals and ruthlessly culled lazy and sullen employees from all the enterprises he had stakes in. He opened opal mines in the mountains and bribed and threatened Vaskian tribes into respecting Veretian borders. He carefully cultivated good relations with Patran merchants with the hopes of exporting timber and other goods.

Through it all he wrote to Laurent, dutifully, at least once a month. It was nonsense for the most part, but sometimes it was messages about trade and border raids, invitations to visit Varenne and small anecdotes about Auguste.

He never received a response but he continued to write all the same, hoping the letters might make Laurent feel less alone than he felt himself.

Slowly Varenne settled into a state of stability and prosperity.

Berenger savored what small bits of joy he could find for himself. The foaling season, the horses, the grateful smiles of his people. He led a quiet life, difficult but satisfying.

When the letter came- a thick creamy envelope stamped with the starburst seal- it was a shock. For a brief beautiful moment Berenger thought it was from Auguste.

But of course, it was from Laurent. A painfully formal thing, an invitation to court.

Berenger ran his fingertips over the date- shocked at that too. It had been six years since he’d been back in Arles. Time had slipped past him in a strange haze and now he felt like he was coming awake again to a world he didn’t recognize.

Why was Laurent writing to him only now? Why the strange formality and even stranger undertones to his letter- something between a plea and a demand?

Berenger wrote back at once that he’d be honored to accept the Prince’s invitation and set about figuring out what the hell was going on.

He was the Lord of Varenne, he received plenty of invitations to various parties and events from hopeful nobles and well-to-do merchants, city officials. He’d ignored the invitations as a matter of course but due to his position they kept coming all the same- persistent attempts to curry favor.

It was with great trepidation that he finally answered one, attending a ball in a nearby Lord’s manor. He wasn’t particularly skilled at socializing, but he wasn’t a complete bore, either. And there were so many rumors flying around it was easy enough to catch a few.

There was much he’d missed, it seemed, while he’d been hiding away in Varenne.

According to the rumors the Regent was at his wit’s end with Laurent. They said Laurent was obstinate, that he was vicious and cruel. They said he was spoiled and foolish, that he was made of ice. They said he brought criminals and unsavory characters into his service, that he dishonored his brother’s memory. In fact, there were so many unfavorable rumors about Laurent that Berenger was surprised he hadn’t heard anything sooner. It all left a bad taste in his mouth. Something was terribly wrong.

He remembered the look of hatred in the Regent’s eyes back in the tent at Marlas and didn’t know what to make of it.

Nothing was as it should be. Berenger felt turned around and lost, off balance. And then- just when he needed distractions the least- he attended a gathering hosted by Lord Rouart.

* * *

There wasn’t supposed to be a pet performance, else such a thing might have been advertised in advance. There wasn’t _ supposed _to be a pet performance, because Rouart knew Berenger would be in attendance, and it was common knowledge by now that Berenger found such performances distasteful.

He almost left when the performance was announced. He’d been considering sending Parsins to retrieve his coat when Rouart laughed and set a hand on his shoulder in a gesture that was far too familiar, leaning in conspiratorially.

“I think you’ll want to see this,” he murmured with a smirk. “Louans’ pet is a firecracker.”

Despite his misgivings Berenger followed the others into the hall that was to be the makeshift ring, taking a seat in one of the chairs. Rouart was close to the Regent and Berenger couldn’t afford to make any more enemies.

Rouart’s pet, a pouty boy glittering with diamonds, held no interest for Berenger. He acted demure but it was a poor illusion. His eyes were sullen and full of petty cruelty.

The other pet- Louans’- shortly followed, and Berenger’s breath caught in his throat. Firecracker was certainly one way to describe him- red hair, fiercely flashing eyes, a wicked smirk. He was a fresh breeze through a stuffy room, a fox amongst hens.

“Strip,” he ordered imperiously and Rouart’s pet moved to obey.

The performance proceeded in the way these things tended to do, up until the red haired pet looked up and seemed to stare straight into Berenger’s eyes. Berenger’s fingers tightened over the arms of his chair, his heart pounding.

“Spread your legs, Rouart.”

Scandalized whispers exploded through the hall and Berenger wasn’t sure what he felt- relief or disappointment- at the realization that the pet hadn’t been looking at him after all, but at Rouart seated beside him.

“Fuck him, Red,” someone laughed.

After that the show grew increasingly obscene and Berenger couldn’t take his eyes off the pet’s face as he enthusiastically proclaimed his pleasure, fucking Rouart’s pet and taunting the Lord himself at the same time, playing the whole room like a fiddle. Everyone wanted him, and none of them wanted him more than Berenger.

As soon as the show was over and the pets were bundled up and spirited away, a bidding war erupted around him.

Berenger would need a pet, if he was to go to court. He’d been dreading the prospect of bringing some pretty foul-mouthed viper into his home and his household. He’d been dreading being constantly on his guard around a false-faced fuck toy who would no doubt be scheming against him at every turn.

Suddenly the prospect of keeping a pet seemed to have a certain appeal. Not just any pet, _ this _one, full of fire and laughter. A pet that could captivate a whole room of Lords as easy as breathing.

Berenger waited patiently as the price went up and up. And then he stood, and made the final bid.

* * *

He knew he’d made a mistake as soon as the pet- Ancel, as his previous master had been gracious enough to tell him- showed up in his rooms that very night.

Gone was the fierce pride, the wicked smirk, the aura of power that had filled him back in the ring. Now he was a young man with a calculating glint to his eyes and lies dripping from his lips. He was just like the all the others, transactional and disloyal and- _ god- _so damn beautiful that Berenger couldn’t look directly at him without wanting to put his hands on him and doing something he would no doubt regret.

Buying him was the most foolish thing he’d ever done. He’d spent a fortune when that money really would have been better spent elsewhere. On troops, supplies, the civil war that seemed to be brewing in Vere.

When he sent Ancel along to Varenne while he went to Laderhors he firmly told himself that he wasn’t running away, except in so many ways he was.

He returned exhausted and demoralized, only to enter the antechamber of his bedroom to find Ancel sitting curled up by the fire with a book. He startled when Berenger walked in, standing with a quiet gasp. He was in a white linen shirt and plain trousers, his hair tied back with a simple tie.

He was lovely and fresh-faced, so different from what he’d been like in the ring. Berenger’s heart tinged painfully as he realized how wrong he’d been. Of course- Ancel was playing the part he’d thought was expected of him. But this was who he really was, when he was at his leisure.

Berenger marveled at the change in him. They spoke of Isagoras and had a simple supper. Ancel was clever and curious and it was a pleasure to spend time with him. It was the first time since Auguste that Berenger had spoken to anyone about anything of no consequence. He’d forgotten the simple joy of it- a conversation instead of a negotiation or a dispute, being able to relax for once instead of carefully watching for treachery and falsehoods. Talk of poetry instead of taxes or trading rights or land disputes or any number of other tedious but necessary topics. 

At the end of the night Berenger was genuinely regretful to retire to his own rooms and tentatively hopeful for the days to come. Maybe this would work between them after all.

* * *

Berenger wasn’t about to subject Ancel to his clumsy affections. He wasn’t so delusional as to think Ancel wanted him, not truly. But he was still impossibly drawn to the young man, spending as much time with him as he could.

He only had the one model for friendship, so he took Ancel riding and invited him to spend quiet evenings by the fire, talking about nothing in particular. Ancel was an attentive listener and Berenger found himself opening up despite his lingering distrust. They spoke about the Akielon alliance, the Prince, the Regent. Nothing of particular secrecy or consequence, but it was a relief to speak about any of it at all. It was a relief to have someone to speak to.

When it all came crashing down Berenger felt like the biggest fool.

“Do you even like horses?” he asked bitterly when what he meant was- _ did you ever really like me? Was it all pretend? _

“I can’t read,” Ancel retorted, like that was any answer at all. Berenger supposed that it was.

* * *

The next morning Ancel came down to breakfast wearing silks and velvets, jewels and perfume. He didn’t say _ fuck you _ but the implication was there in the way he glared as he sat down. He picked up a fruit tart and bit into it with relish as Berenger buttered a piece of bread.

“The horse I chose for you has arrived,” Berenger said quietly. “She’s a strawberry roan named Ruby. I wonder if you’ll like her.” He didn’t know why he bothered. It was stupid, one last attempt at grasping the illusion Ancel had created that had so enchanted him- the young man in the plain white shirt who’d acted like Berenger was interesting, special. Worthy of attention.

“I like actual rubies,” Ancel said with a disdainful sniff.

“I see,” Berenger said, looking back down at his breakfast. So that was it, then. A door slammed shut. 

He stopped trying after that. He bought Ancel jewels and clothes and tried not to think of what might have been. At least he had plenty of practice at wanting something he could never have.

He still insisted that Ancel accompany him on rides to neighboring villages and wasn’t sure why. Maybe to cement the ruse that Ancel was his doting pet, or to make sure Ancel practiced his riding- it was a useful skill that he might need one day. Maybe to punish Ancel for his deception. It certainly wasn’t to see the way Ancel wrinkled his nose whenever they stepped into the stables, an expression of unstudied truthful disgust that was oddly… cute on his delicate features.

When they finally arrived at Arles Berenger was wracked with worry- about what he’d find there, worried about Laurent, the Akielons, the Regent. But then he looked at Ancel’s face and saw the naked wonder there as he took in the palace, their rooms.

He looked practically euphoric and Berenger felt an echo of his wonder as they walked together. Some of the anxiety faded. Ancel looked at everything as if it was amazing, trailing his elegant fingers over the intricately carved furniture and the tapestries, the jeweled cabinets.

“That one’s yours,” Berenger said, gesturing to a bedroom off of his own.

“Mine?!” Ancel exclaimed happily, flinging himself down on the bed with boyish excitement and burying his face in the velvet cushions. He looked so right amongst the riches of the room, so happy. He’d thought Ancel was happy before, while they sat by the fire and discussed Isagoras, but that had just been a pale imitation of the way he was now- radiant with joy.

Berenger realized with a pang that in his mind he’d been fashioning Ancel as some sort of replacement for Auguste- a friend and companion, a potential lover.

Ancel was nothing like Auguste.

Ancel was selfish and clever and vicious, a liar and a whore, a beautiful dream. 

Berenger thought he’d wanted a young man in a plain shirt, but now that he saw the truth of Ancel at last he only wanted him.

“Luxury suits you,” he said, instead of saying any of the other things that were swirling around in his mind.

“I think so too,” Ancel said, smiling like an angel.

_fin._

**Author's Note:**

> Now with a follow-up fic: [If He Wins](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21824509)
> 
> Find me on tumblr at [barbitone](http://barbitone.tumblr.com/) and pillowfort also at [barbitone](https://www.pillowfort.io/barbitone)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [If He Wins](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21824509) by [barbitone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/barbitone/pseuds/barbitone)


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